Poems For My Father by Doug Tanoury
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Doug Tanoury grew up in Detroit and still lives in the area.
Doug is exclusively a poet of the Internet with the majority
of his work never leaving electronic form. He is published
widely across the World WideWeb.
The greatest influence on Doug and his work was the
7th grade poetry anthology used in Sister Debra's
English class: Reflections On A Gift Of Watermelon
Pickle and Other Modern Verse, Stephen Dunning,
Edward Lueders and Hugh Smith, (c)1966 by
Scott Foresman & Company.
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August Rain
I remember an August once
When I could talk to him
But didn't and each word unspoken
Rested like a brick on the silence
That lay thick as a layer of mortar
And grew into hardness between us
These day's I think of him
Mostly when rain falls in gray sheets
With a soft hiss as droplets
Paint the pavement with color
Of an overcast sky and collects
On the road in pools in brought to full boil
In summer storms with the
Sound of thunder on my skin
I recall in the air's smell and
The wind cool in my hair
An August once when rain fell
In mortar gray hardness on our silence
Doug Tanoury (c) 1998
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My Father Dying
In the gulls cry I can remember
My father's voice and recall his smell
In the coolness of air drifting off
The lake that lay translucent green
Like the jade backs of crayfish
Its surface still and the only motion
A black-hulled lake freighter that
Travels the horizon like a body being
Wheeled down a hall on a gurney
The glint of sunlight that stretches
Across the surface is the silver tails
Of minnows swimming in schools
And the glassiness of his eyes as he
Falls into a stillness where unmoving
He becomes without wind or waves
The lake where mahogany earthworms
And ebony leeches are bait
For stained-glass bluegills
Doug Tanoury (c) 1999
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Nocturne
In the early hours of the morning,
At 2:30 and sometimes after,
I would hear my father,
Unable to sleep, couching,
His footsteps moving about,
As he transformed the kitchen
Into a concert hall,
With refrigerator doors closing loudly.
Jars could be heard opening.
Their vacuum seals hissing,
Lids rolling, spiraling and strumming
Across table or countertop,
The sound of him rummaging
Through the silver for knife, fork
Or spoon, and the glupp-glupp of him
In the glass.
Some nights now I wake up
At 2:30 or sometime after,
Unable to sleep.
In the summer, I sit out
In the quiet on the front porch step,
In winter, in the darkened living room
At the rolltop desk, but always
Avoiding the kitchen.
Indeed, I tiptoe through it, for the
Silence there has grown
Into a monument to him,
And I fear that if I click the
Glass of the pimento olive
And the sweet pickle jars
It will disturb his peace,
And any slight rattle of silverware
Will conjure his spirit.
Doug Tanoury (c) 1996
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Last Words
I had a dream I met
The ghost of my father
In an all-night supermarket.
I was walking down the produce
And frozen food aisle
When I saw him following me,
Walking close behind,
But I did not recognize him
Until he spoke the name
Of my childhood: "Hi Dougie."
As I heard his voice
I knew him at once.
I turned to hug him,
And for one long moment
In the brightly lit store
Between the prickly pears
And frozen pizzas
We stood embracing.
He never spoke again,
And I too not speaking,
Just held him.
Doug Tanoury (c) 1996
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Bad Weather
Whenever I saw him
I felt the cold
A kind of deep chill
That passed through me
Numbing my insides
And the ice that formed
On the outer edges of my words
Was skin tingling
In the same way
His kisses were snowflakes
Melting on my cheeks
I would always wish him gone
Just as I would hope
For winter's passing
And long for a trace of color
In the pencil sketch landscape
That is February
And now that he is
A season past
There is mildness in the air
And a stirring in the earth
Of things ready to grow
Doug Tanoury (c) 2001
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Glokamora
I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
"How are things in Glokamora?"
When I am serious, focused and determined.
His comic entrance into every room
Disturbs me now, when I make decisions
And deal with responsibilities in a come-back
With-your-shield-or-on-it manner.
I hear him.
I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
"How are things in Glokamora?"
From a musical I never saw, when I am with
People who depend on me, when I gather everything
I've built and value around me and bask
In the orderliness of a reasonable life, when I am
Sure that achievement is the measure of a man.
I hear him.
I hear the ghost of my father
Singing to me:
"How are things in Glokamora?"
When I'm thoughtful and careful, when cool control
Is important, when I read a book or write
A line of verse, when I put on a dark suit,
Straighten my tie, and when I catch myself singing
A song from Finnigan's Rainbow and am thoroughly
Annoyed. I hear him.
Doug Tanoury (c) 1993
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Trembling
(A Reluctant Love Poem)
Today
An August sky opened
And white clouds parted
And I trembled.
And a great hand
Reached out of heaven
As the sky blackened
And I trembled.
And giant fingers
Closed about my chest
With steady and increasing pressure
And did not stop
Until the words
Trembled on my lips:
"God help me!
I love you. I truly do."
And heaven was new
And the earth was new
And the world trembling and new
Began today.
Doug Tanoury (c) 1987
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